


Immaculate Conception, Perfect Weapon

by ambivalentangst



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, BAMF Peter Parker, Gen, Insensitivity Towards Suicide, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Strangulation, Superior Iron Man, Superior Iron Man Vol 1. (2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambivalentangst/pseuds/ambivalentangst
Summary: Little what’s-his-face with the button up peeking out from under his sweater is a PR goldmine, and Tony will make the people of this worldlove himlike they should’ve in his own, and from there, it’ll be easy to slip in his plans for a new,betterworld.(Tony doesn’t need San Francisco, doesn’t need anything—he can make everything he desires here and it will beperfect.)Tony doesn’tmindfear because, even if they’re watching their backs, people still have their eyes on him, but hecravesadoration.And it all starts here.//Tony Stark, asuperiorTony Stark, finds himself in New York and spots a boy on a rooftop.





	Immaculate Conception, Perfect Weapon

In his defense, not that he needs a defense at this point, Tony isn’t_ trying_ to bust into another universe. He’s perfectly happy with his own, from San Francisco to the rest of what it has to offer.  


_“You might still manage to force your arrogant vision onto the world, but you will do so broken, unloved, and completely alone.”_

(He is God, and God doesn’t need company. If he wanted, he could force anyone at all to entertain him, pour drinks down their throat and coax laughter from their lips if he wanted the company, but he doesn’t, and Pepper is _wrong_, no matter how she sits on her high horse and_ gloatsgloatsgloa—_)

Bottom line, it’s easier being in a world where the people already scream his name, and if it’s in fear, that’s a sacrifice Tony is willing to make for a new, _superior _world. Regardless, it’s an odd feeling, going somewhere every atom in his being says he shouldn’t be, at least for the duration of the trip.

When he gets back to his universe, it will be no great undertaking to take care of the second-rate scientist that managed to put him here. In fact, it will be his pleasure, for no other reason than the full-body ache that racks him as he stares up at clouds calmly traipsing across an azure sky.

Nature is the same here, he supposes, which isn’t a terrible start to an otherwise annoying situation.

(Some—_Pepper, Matt, not that he needs them or _anyone_ anymore_—would say he doesn’t handle things not going his way well, these days.)

Tony wants whiskey or scotch or maybe both, but for the time being, takes the liberty of exiting the gratuitous crater he’s made, faceplate down, and looks around.

First observation, his crater—and yes, it’s definitely _his_, a print in the shape of his body engraved in the center—is in the middle of a street. Five cars are smoking, their passengers standing off the side and looking up at him in awe, and a man is sprawled far off to the side, several feet from a similarly damaged motorcycle, unmoving. _Unfortunate_, Tony barely spares the energy to think, and then rotates himself in search of a landmark, rising steadily higher into the sky that greeted him upon arrival.

Second observation, the Statue of Liberty.

That is helpful and yet still irritating. He _likes_ San Francisco, and this is not it. The change in scenery is, honestly, irrelevant. If he so desired, he’d be back across the country in a matter of hours, but the inconvenience stands. He spins again, and while it is not the largest of the buildings dotting the landscape around him, he zeroes in on the one with his name on it easily.

It’s interesting though not surprising that his vanity is reflected in whatever version of him exists here, but it doesn’t catch his attention more than the child he finds on top of said building, wide-eyed, scrawny, blowing in the breeze like he might just topple down to become a mere stain on the street below.

Tony does love to entertain, and he thinks of how nice it would be, to see this fragile child’s eyes light up at the sight of him, this liquid, invincible marvel in his midst. He’s halfway to him when he realizes he’s likely there to jump, which is excellent because for however long he decides to stay in this new world he’s been gifted with, he can start being the hero people always want_ now._

He lands gracefully, directly in front of him, and the kid stumbles back and away from the edge, Tony is pleased to say, the first event of his minutes-long foray into a new universe that doesn’t make him grind his teeth.

His eyes—closer now, and committed to a mini pet project, Tony decides to take notice—are a chocolate brown and soft just like the rest of him. He’ll be perfect for the newspapers, a little older than the typical subject of a feel-good story but still baby-faced enough to play the role Tony’s so kindly saved him for.

(He can’t be broken if he still does good, _Pepper,_ he is _doing_ good, and she isn’t even here to see it—and his temperature is rising again against his will because God doesn’t need approval, god-_fucking_-damnit—)

“Careful there,” he says—smooth, charming.

How will he smile for the picture?

He should be careful not to let his eyes glow, as they sometimes do now when he gets caught up in himself. Normal people just aren’t ready for everything he’s capable of, so he’ll take it slowly—one step at a time. Regardless, he shouldn’t let it get too toothy. He doesn’t want to be a businessman, he wants to be a hero. So, relaxed, warm, if he can manage it—satisfied by the ramifications of even his smallest acts of kindness because of course he’ll say that it was nothing—_“just being there for the city, you know?”_—and naturally, he’ll have to express his grief for the victims of his landing, but it’s not _his_ fault he got put there, now is it? If he plays his cards right, puts on enough of a show about it, they’ll be eating out of the palm of his hand.

Oh yes, that’ll be a good foot in the door to a better reputation here, not that he’s staying because he is content with his own world, he _is_—

“What—how—”

Ah, at a loss for words. It’s cute in the way that shock sometimes is on kids, not new—never new because he is the creator of all that is worth the surprise of new-ness—but cute nonetheless.

“Never seen Iron Man before? It’s alright. Your lucky day though, am I right?” He grins, wide and bright, gesturing to himself. “So, I gotta’ tell you, you really should stay away from edges of buildings. Long way down there, and you look like a good kid, got a nice family waiting up on you. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, right?”

He’s closing the distance between them, hands on his shoulders—too close, but Tony’s excited. He knows how this is going to go—_no, they won’t miss me_—which he’ll talk him through, be understanding, everything the kid needs—_of course they will. They always do. It gets better, champ. _

He’s prepared for a little deviation from the script, some back and forth that Tony will eventually win him over with, and then he’ll be able to wrap the whole thing up with a bow, snap a picture or two, and get the kid some actual professional help.

And—oh, he hadn’t even considered this yet—if he visits whatever ward he’s in and the press gets wind of it? _Perfect._

Little what’s-his-face with the button up peeking out from under his sweater is a PR goldmine, and Tony will make the people of this world _love him_ like they should’ve in his own, and from there, it’ll be easy to slip in his plans for a new, _better_ world.

(Tony doesn’t need San Francisco, doesn’t need anything—he can make everything he desires here and it will be _perfect_.)

Tony doesn’t _mind_ fear because even if they’re watching their backs people still have their eyes on him, but he _craves_ adoration.

And it all starts here.

(If Pepper could see him now.)

He’s close enough now where the kid has to look up to meet his eyes, and he does so after a long look at the hands on his shoulders—chrome, and Tony’s honestly trying to be reassuring. He seems to scrutinize his stare too, brown on unnatural, electric blue.

It’s startling.

Tony never thought himself a people person, but the boy is painfully easy to read, that puppy-dog gaze of his frayed at the edges and wary, hiding an ache Tony unearths without even holding a shovel.

“You’re real,” the kid mumbles, half to himself if Tony had to guess.

He laughs, though he tries not to be condescending with it. He is talking the kid down, after all. “Genuine article. So, tell me, what’s got you up here? Something I can help you with?”

Tony would like to get things moving, but he’s enjoying the reverence and lets the moment stall. Then, out of left field, he’s not going to lie, the kid drops his eyes to stare at the ground. Tony forgives that. He’s a lot to take in normally, and the suit can be overwhelming.

“You don’t know me, do you?” he whispers.

Now that’s just unrealistic.

“If I kept track of every kid who tried to take a swan dive off a skyscraper, I wouldn’t have time to run a company,” he replies, smothering the urge to roll his eyes. He wants this kid to like him. Pictures, press—it’s as important to him here as it is back home. He removes his hands from him—if only to readjust his grip and bring him safely to the street below. He’ll make sure to fly extra low for it when he does, give people the opportunity to snap a few shots for themselves. “Now, let’s get you down,” he suggests, but the kid takes a few steps back and as he does so, there comes a knock from the door leading up to the roof, then a person emerging slowly from behind it, struggling with where it’s apparently gotten stuck in its swing.

“Peter? Is that you up there?”

_No. He needs him—he _needs_ to be the savior this once._

He doesn’t hesitate to lift a hand, only technically trying to scare whoever it is from coming any further, but he won’t lose any sleep if the blast he sends forth hurts anyone.

The light, burning and blinding, bursts forth as expected, but it goes up, which isn’t right. Tony twists, lip curling into a snarl as he looks down to—

Oh.

_Oh._

The eyes of his damsel of choice have hardened, and he has a bruising grip on Tony’s wrist. It’s not ideal, but Tony is no stranger to the odd adrenaline rush. He sighs, and a tendril of his armor reaches out to shove the kid—Peter, the voice at the door had called him—away.

He doesn’t budge.

“Why did you do that?” he asks and sounds _breathless_, which Tony doesn’t understand. After all, all he’s doing is holding onto him.

It takes a second, but eventually and upon further scrutiny of Peter’s expression, he realizes his breathing is him trying not to cry. 

(_Pathetic._)

“We weren’t done talking,” Tony replies, ignoring the jiggling of the handle he’s holding shut with a bit of the suit. “Now,” and here the metal under Peter’s grip expands, startling him into releasing his hold, “let’s get back to it.”

He doesn’t hear any screaming, so clearly whoever it was is fine. Peter, however, looks ruffled. “You could’ve hurt them,” he snaps, and at last, tears slipping down his cheeks, his face twisted up with them. “You didn’t need to do that.”

Peter is only a child, Tony reminds himself. There’s no need to get angry, not when he still has something to offer him. “Didn’t I? What if they’d startled you right over the edge? You’re not seeing what I see, Pete. I’m just trying to help.”

He was hoping Peter would be easier to manipulate, but he can work with this.

“I don’t _want_ your help!”

Then again, maybe not.

“That’s not your choice to make.”

This is all taking too long. He should’ve chosen a different sob story, but now the boy knows his face, and he might as well make the most of it. He stalks forward, one step, two.

(Facing someone—some_thing_ he once knew, Peter thinks of another rooftop and the smell of the ocean—_“If you even cared, you’d actually be here.”_)

(This paragon, clad in silver and radiating blue-toned power, is _wrong._)

The boy comes to meet him, and Tony is promptly tossed head over ass onto the roof of another building. He is, admittedly, taken by surprise.

The boy was _his_ to control, and he’s not following the plan. No, he’s staring at him, those eyes teary but wary as Tony focuses in on him. His own are glowing now, he knows because anger is rising within him, suffocating and hot, and the boy is_ ruining_ the plan he had laid out.

In his mind’s eye, he sees newspapers fluttering in the wind, his dreams of a loving world torn to shreds with the ungrateful actions of this_ Peter._

He rises, annoyed by the dirt clouding the shine of the suit, and barrels up and towards the boy.

If he won’t comply naturally, Tony isn’t above making him. He knows how he wants the story told, and no matter how strong he is, he’s a waif on a building where Tony is God.

Tony lunges for him, and he yelps as he dives out of the way, machinery scuttling down his torso and up his neck until the boy is covered in shiny red, gold, and blue. The pattern is nearly familiar, but he’s moving fast, away from Tony.

Interesting—he’s more than he appears, then—but it won’t be enough to protect him, Tony’s sure.

“Don’t make this hard for yourself, kid,” he snaps, a few strands of his suit reaching out to latch around his wrists and ankles. “All I want is a good story, and then you’re free to go.”

Probably, that is. Tony is more _comfortable_ with a sense of morality now, or rather, lacking it, and whatever’s juicing the little freak up is undoubtedly worth studying. The longer this goes on, the more the option seems appealing, but Peter doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m not giving you anything!” he shouts, and oh—he’s going over the edge.

In Tony’s defense, he tried to keep him alive, but really, this is a new opportunity to find an easier good deed. 

Then, his sensors pick up a foot coming for the back of his head, and Tony scarcely darts out of the way as _Spider-Man_ comes to knock the shit out of him.

Tony thought he recognized the suit.

“I take it you weren’t going to jump, then,” he muses, and Spider-Man sends a web his way. He dodges, heading back towards him. He doesn’t care that it’s a kid behind the eyes of his gimmick, brown gone to white and still managing to be just as expressive. Peter—_Spider-Man_—is in the way, so he must be eliminated.

“Jumping’s kinda’ my specialty, actually,” he offers. The quip is cracked at the edges, but he’s Spider-Man, so of _course_ he has something to say. It just makes Tony angrier. He _is_ angry now, past annoyance and moving into the blind desire to break that comes with him trying and failing at a simple task that just won’t lay right.

Tony’s repulsor flares, and while he hears a hiss from Peter letting him know that to some extent, the blow met its target, a hit lands on his chin and knocks his head back. Tony’s so surprised that’s someone’s directly managed to cause him pain, he takes a foot to his chest, slamming him into the concrete of the roof with a rush of breath knocked loose from his lungs.

He is, undoubtedly and almost embarrassingly, about half a foot deep into something the him of this universe designed. He allows himself to take a second to gather his bearings. He’s going to tear Peter apart at the seams now, it’s non-negotiable, but he has time. He looks up at the clouds and decides he wants to know more. With a simple thought, he sends his AI pillaging through the one in Peter’s suit, and it returns to him with footage of a battle, a snap.

He sees himself in Peter’s perspective, the pitiful emptiness of his eyes in the end, and is overcome with—with—with _something_—

(Tony’s not so good at emotion these days, and he hates what he can’t control.)

Tony hates Peter—that’s it, that’s what he’s feeling—for ruining his chance at something new, for having the audacity to _love_ the weaker version of himself that once existed here.

(Gods are worshipped, revered, but love is mundane, available to anyone who tries.)

(This Tony, blue-eyed and skewed in all the wrong ways, hates what he can’t have.)

The discovery takes maybe a second. A second and a half if he’s being generous, what with the link between his suit—glittering, chrome, a sharpened blade winking in the sun—and his mind. He takes a moment more to realize that beneath their mutually heavy breathing, Peter’s is hitched, rocking as if to try and console himself.

Peter needs consolation because he’s starting to cry—sob, even. “Stay down, Mr. Stark,” he tries to order, voice wobbling.

He thinks he’s won, has he, that it’d be that simple?

He is wrong, he is feeble, and Tony hates him.

Peter has stumbled back, falling apart and trying to lick his wounds, and Tony lurches forward to lock a hand around his neck. “Stay down?” he hisses, throwing his words back at him as he shoves him back down onto the ground. “You think you can get a blow in and finish me off?”

He’s gasping, choking beneath that mask of his, and Tony presses harder as he laughs, lips split in a leering grin. It’s funny, really, when he looks past what this _boy_ feels for him—not him, actually, which is the problem here—that he’d dare to take mercy on him. He’s God, and this bug thinks he has the power to decide when a battle is over.

It’s just _hilarious_, Tony thinks, squeezing, pressing, exterminating.

He’s clawing desperately at Tony’s face now, through his armor and struggling to pry him off. To think, Tony thought he was unfamiliar with Iron Man when they’ve spent so much time together, fighting, building, and even apart, mourning.

(Will someone mourn Tony in his own world? Will Pepper ever miss him? Will anyone?)

When he’s dead, then Tony can tear him apart and see what makes him tick. He can’t stand him alive, anyhow, not as he’s begging with _Mr. Stark_s and hitting him anywhere he can reach.

He would’ve let _his_ Tony hold him, wouldn’t he? They had movie nights, time in the lab. He ruffled his hair and shared blankets with him, carried him to his bed and kissed the top of his head when he thought he was asleep, information he’s getting as he tears into the system in the building below them. Peter loved _his _Tony, old, fragile, worn as he was—so what’s wrong with him, when he’s so _clearly_ superior? What could it be, not that it matters, because Tony _hates_ him, Tony doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t _want_—

Peter’s attempts are slowing, hands starting to fumble as Tony continues to cut off his oxygen supply, and Tony is wrenched back by the force of a portal opening up to reclaim him.

The second Peter’s freed, he hunches over, retching, gasping, _surviving_, and Tony tunes into the world beyond him enough to realize someone is pounding at the door to the roof—presumably the voice from before. Tony doesn’t care, not when he’s fighting to stay where he is.

Perhaps that second-rate scientist isn’t as second-rate as he assumed.

Tony lunges forward, the metal of his suit electrified with the need to get away from the portal because this world can be better, this world can be his, just as soon as he wipes Peter from its surface.

Chrome tentacles flail for purchase, on the building, on light posts below, ripping concrete and metal from their lodgings as he’s dragged back, back, _back_.

Tony wants to roar his protest, but there’s no time for that, not when his universe is wrenching him away from this one that could be everything he needs if it weren’t for—

_Ah._

Peter is staunchly adhered to the side of a building he’s slipped away to sometime in Tony’s distraction, seemingly unfazed by the destruction—Spider-Man indeed. He’s the key, suddenly, Tony’s demise and salvation rolled into one, and he has to reach him. A tendril fights the portal, extending to wrap around his ankle, wrist, anything. He can be his anchor so that when the portal closes, Tony will get everything he wants.

He never makes it, and as he is dragged kicking and screaming into his own world, seemingly the only thing the portal is interested in taking, he looks at Peter and finds nothing he understands in the eyes of his mask and certainly no semblance of love.

(It doesn’t matter—he is God and God is too powerful to need anything but Himself—it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t—)

What is God without His worshippers?

The portal envelops him, and Peter disappears from sight.

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy this has been in the Works for awhile but!! she's done now!! superior iron man is terrible but I Love him what can i say. thank u to [sreppub!](https://sreppub.tumblr.com) for enabling me, ily. fyi, you can probably read/understand this without having read the superior iron man comics, but some of the references/lines in this fic (esp Tony's whole God complex) make more sense with that as background info. that being said, superior im are the only comics I have read, so some parts of this fic may be comic-inaccurate. also, this fic ignores the whole "selling the tower" thing bc I said so and any mentions of love between Peter and Tony in this are _strictly_ platonic/that of a father and son. thanks for reading, and if you liked it, feel free to drop a kudos and/or a comment—they make my day!!
> 
> If you want to come yell at me about this fic or anything else, I have a Marvel-only blog that can be found [here!](https://ambivalentmarvel.tumblr.com)


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